


A Familiar Weight

by perlaret



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alderaanian Diaspora, Family legacy, Future Fic, Lowkey Ship Fic, M/M, Memory and Cultural Identity, New Alderaan, Post-Canon, Preserving Culture, Survivor Guilt, imposter syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perlaret/pseuds/perlaret
Summary: Ben remembers. Alderaan never forgot.





	

Ben remembers. Alderaan never forgot.

 

-

 

"I need you to fly me somewhere."

Poe Dameron looks up at him from the schematics laid before him, brow pinching. Ben – and he _is_ getting used to thinking of himself as Ben again, actively, without all of the awkwardness that had clung for months – looks back, arms folded and implacable.

"I have drills to run this afternoon," Poe says with a shake of his head. He turns resolutely back to what he was doing. "Can't."

"Cancel them," Ben tells him. Poe snorts incredulously.

"You realize this is my job, right? The 'commander' title isn't just for show," Poe says. After a moment, curiosity gets the better of him, and he turns back to Ben with narrowed eyes. He rakes a hand through his hair, pushing the thick waves back from his eyes. "Okay. I'll bite. Where are you trying to go, anyway?"

The indecision is still there, lingering like a spectre, but Ben swallows it down. He's getting better at figuring out which struggles are grounded in conscience and which are rooted in fear. He's got a lot of issues with both; it's a work in progress.

"Alderaan," Ben says. Poe’s eyes widen. It’s enough.

 

-

 

The colony of New Alderaan is located on a planet to the galactic east, tucked safely away in a small yellow star system deep within the borders of Republic-controlled space. Ben has heard the stories of how and why it was chosen – once overlooked in the days of the Old Republic's frenzy of expansion through the galaxy due to a long ice age, the Alderaanian refugees had sought out a new home unfrequented by Imperial forces. The climate has taken a turn for the warmer since the old days, its ice plains melted into lakes and oceans, while snow sneaks its way off the jagged mountain ranges only seasonally. It may not be quite so temperate and beautiful as the first Alderaan famously was, but its geographic range and verdant summers are suitable for human life.

And life _is_ thriving.

Ben is quiet as they wander into the streets, the hangar they stowed the refurbished BR-23 shuttle in falling away behind them as they walk deeper into the city. People bustle about with their families, pressing the same direction, towards the center of what is now a city. Ben's memories are faint, but he remembers the buildings being smaller, the architecture still rough and yet unfinished. He remembers his parents, during the good times, talking with other adults long into the night, stories of wonders like the now lost Cloudshape Falls and the impossibly sheer cliffs along the Apalis Coast, murmurs of the need for a proper museum, someplace to keep their memories safe.

Poe peers about with interest, coming along beside him.

"Have you been here before?"

"Yes," Ben says. "When I was young."

Poe gives him a lingering look, before accepting the statement for what it is. He twists, taking in all the people and the multitudes of flowers that grace every building and storefront in sight. "There's some sort of celebration going on," he observes, and there's a note of a question in the statement.

"It's Commemoration Day," Ben says, on the edge of a sigh. It was an inevitable explanation, but he feels all the more exposed for saying it aloud.

"For the destruction of Alderaan," Poe concludes, understanding dawning on his face.

Ben keeps his eyes ahead of him as they cross beneath an intricate white arch. He can see the strands of small lights woven around its loops and curls; tonight, when night falls, the streets will be still be lit with as much warmth as Alderaanians can muster to chase the gloom away.

"And other planets," Ben adds, jaw set.

"Ben." Poe doesn't even try to modulate his exasperation. "Why are you here with me, and not your mother?"

He feels rather than intends the scowl that sets over his own mouth.  For all Ben's best efforts, defensiveness still wears like a convenient glove at a moment's notice. It's probably never going to go away. "She's already here."

Poe's hand at his elbow drags him to an abrupt stop in the middle of foot traffic, garnering a rude comment from the red-faced local that had been walking behind them. They ignore him, and he moves on, lost in the hubbub; Poe's grip is firm as he angles them out of the way, beneath the shade of an awning. "You dragged me all the way out here, so I'm gonna need a hell of a lot better explanation than that," the pilot says, no-nonsense.

There still aren't very many people Ben trusts, but 'a few' is significantly better than 'none at all,' and Poe happens to fall solidly within those ranks. Part of it is this, Ben thinks, this ability to demand Ben be more, that he try, but still be so steadfastly, infuriatingly good-natured about it. Poe's annoyed, sure, but Ben can sense the band of concern that's lit through it. They've known each other too long and overcome too much for it to be missed.

Ben shrugs, but not so much that Poe's grip is dislodged from his arm. It's a small selfishness. "We argued about it," he admits, and it sounds sullen even to his own ears.

Poe rolls his eyes. "Shocking," he says. "You make this like pulling teeth, you know? And you know how I feel about torture. What did you argue about?"

"Not here," Ben says, not deigning that comment with a response, not that there's any true barb to it anyway. Poe squints at him, then follows his gaze back to the crush of people swirling around them.

"Yeah, okay. I saw a sign," he replies, clapping Ben's shoulder. "Follow me."

 

-

 

There's a park a little further into the city, and the plaque at the entrance proclaims it an honorary likeness of the famous Sunburst Gardens. There's a crowd to the south, towards where the greenhouses are. They turn northwest instead, where it's a little clearer. The scent of flowers is even thicker here, but it's strangely soothing. Poe shoves his hands in his pockets and waits him out with an air of stubborn finality.

"She wanted me to come with her," Ben admits at length, tugging idly at a loose thread on his sleeve.

"And you threw a fit?" Poe asks, sounding unimpressed.

"No," he snaps, then a moment later he amends with: "Well, you would probably think so."

That musters a laugh, at least. "Well, you're getting honest," Poe says, eyes crinkling into the start of a smile. "Makes it easier to put up with you."

"Shut up," Ben replies comfortably, and it's almost annoying that this is the kind of conversation that can set him at ease now. Almost. He kicks at a rock, sending it skittering over the walkway in front of them. The pale pavement is flecked with sparkly bits of purple, made of some sort of stone native to this world. "You asked."

"So what was the problem?" Poe prompts, nodding them toward a newly freed bench opening up just to their right. Ben accepts the change of direction and rests his elbows on his knees when they sit; in contrast, Poe practically lounges, arm flung over the length of the backrest.

Ben looks down at his hands. There's a nick on his thumb that could become a hangnail if he's not careful.  “All of it,” he says, not caring if Poe thinks it’s melodramatic. Which he probably does. "She wanted me to come as an Organa."

"Benji." Poe manages to sound infinitely patient. "Buddy. You _are_ an Organa."

"I haven't forgotten," Ben says witheringly. He breathes in through his nose, then out again, simultaneously trying to dampen his temper and casting about for the words to explain. "I meant – publicly. With her, as part of the proceedings."

"Okay," Poe says, drumming his fingers on the bench as he mulls that over. I guess I can see why the General would want that, coming here as the Princess, and we all know how she feels about that. You are her son."

He says it so casually.

Ben stands up abruptly, hands clenching into fists as he rounds on Poe. Distantly, he can sense the way the metal in his cybernetic hand grates in one hand, muscle straining in the other. "I don't care whose son I am, I am not going to stand around and wave in front of a crowd like a hypocrite!"

"Woah, woah!" Poe exclaims, palms raised in surprise. He shoots a reassuring smile at a bypassing family, their alarm drawn by Ben's outburst. He shakes his head when they move on. "But you _will_ cause a scene in the local park? Come on, sit your ass back down."

"No," Ben replies, petulant. Poe has the gall to just look bored, which only frustrates him further. It's worse because he's right – the very last thing Ben wants is an audience, but anger has always been too ready an emotion. It smolders in his stomach still, reluctant to retreat.

"Okay, fine," Poe says, crossing his arms. Despite the concession, he remains uncowed. "But we did not requisition Resistance property for personal use just so you could bite my head off for acknowledging a point of view that's not yours. We could have done that back on D'Qar, without potentially compromising the fuel budget."

Ben is sorely tempted to kick something. Instead, he groans, then sits.

"Fine," he says, still bitter. Poe says nothing, and a tense beat later, Ben adds: "...Sorry."

Poe lets him stew in discomfort for what feels like a solid minute before he relaxes, arms dropping and the lines between his eyebrows softening. "Yeah," he says with a minute shrug. "So. Hypocrisy. Gonna elaborate on that one?"

"It requires elaboration?"

"No,” Poe clarifies. "But you clearly need to talk about it."

He has to acknowledge the truth in that statement. Ben talks with Poe Dameron for a number of reasons. Partly because there are too few people who know all the various twists and turns his life has taken, and fewer still who knew him before, even if they'd never been especially close. But the other part is that it's easy to talk to him back then. There had been nothing to do at first but talk, once all else was said and done. It had never been Ben's particular talent, but the same can't be said about Poe. In the end, the result is the same. Ben trusts him.

The thought is steadying. Ben folds his hands and makes himself lean back, though the tension still hiding in his shoulders doesn't relent.

"I grew up on the stories," he admits shortly. "Of Alderaan in its prime and what kind of place it was. I knew about its destruction too, though the General–" he catches himself with a sound of frustration, forces himself to amend, "–my mother, only spoke of that only sparingly. She preferred to hide the grief, but I could feel it."

He remembers that deep, gut-wrenching empathy he'd felt as a child, one of the first manifestations of the Force in him, and the deep wells of sadness in his mother. They had only risen occasionally, the rare times Leia Organa had openly reflected on the past, speaking of the mountaintop view from her bedroom window, of the way the sun would catch bright on the colorful decorations set for Coronation Day, of the music on a summer's night when she came to visit her parents, bone tired from her diplomatic work on Coruscant and secret work with the Rebellion but relieved to set foot again in the home she loved. She always spoke fondly, but the hurt ran so deep that Ben could feel it shaking, at the very pit of his own gut.

He remembers desperately trying to turn it off.

"I watched," Ben says dully. "When the First Order fired on the Hosnian system. I watched and told myself that I felt nothing."

Poe mimics his pose, resting back beside him. His shoulder presses briefly into Ben's as he shifts his weight and the slight breeze that's picking up ruffles his hair, revealing where streaks of gray are starting to take root at the temples. He cants his head to the side and regards Ben speculatively. "You worry what they'd think if they knew who you were."

"It doesn't require much imagination," Ben says.

"Okay," Poe says at length, apparently not dedicated to arguing that point. "So no waving. But you still came to pay your respects."

Ben scowls, unsure whether he's grateful for Poe’s perception, or annoyed at how easily he’s seen through. "I suppose."

He isn't expecting Poe to swing to his feet and outstretch a hand. "Alright. Let's go do that, then," he says, determinedly upbeat. When Ben doesn't immediately accept the offer, he drops his hands to his hips and squares himself like he's not going to take no for an answer. "Or, if you're going to be like that, I can just leave you here to dwell on a lifetime of really bad choices for the afternoon instead."

"You wouldn't," Ben challenges.

"Try me," Poe shoots back. "I'm not going to waste the trip coddling you."

"I don't need coddling," Ben snaps, but it's halfhearted and the needling is enough to get him to his feet. "But I will come. Happy?"

Poe grins, his pretense dropping. Ben feels a little played, to tell the truth, but it's hard to maintain the requisite ire in the face of Poe's smile. "Infinitely," he answers loftily, because Poe’s got a competitive streak a parsec wide, but Ben doesn't actually feel like he's lost either.

 

-

 

The museum looms tall near the center of what's swiftly become a city. The crowds have grown even thicker over the course of the afternoon – there are more than just Alderaanians here, more than just one people in the galaxy to have shared their fate and the need to reminisce on a home that used to be more than space rubble.

The main entry, when they finally make it in, is leafed with gold and a rainbow of flickering colors, cast down from the rotating stained glass ceiling that arcs high over their heads. It's breathtaking; meant to impress. Ben tries to focus on that and not grit his teeth the fourth time someone's elbow jostles dangerously close to his ribs.

"This was a bad idea," he grumbles.

Poe, overhearing him, waves him off. "It'll let up when we're through. Just be patient."

Fortunately, he's right, and the the main hall opens up before them, lessening the crush as people filter off towards different offshooting corridors. There are a number of exhibits, all deliberately crafted in the drive to protect and immortalize Alderaan's history and culture, a wide combination of holos and replicas of the endless originals that were lost and donations collected from across the galaxy, or rescues from the dregs of the Empire. There's a whole library of oral histories, holoreels of people who happened to be away when the Death Star had made its first strike, who'd left their home planet behind not knowing that one day their memories of it would be more valuable than gold. These things are interesting, but Ben's eye is drawn by something else.

"Your grandparents, right?" Poe says, coming to stand beside him when Ben slows to a stop. He purses his lips. "Are you related to anyone who's not famous?"

"If I were, you wouldn't have heard of them," Ben says, and Poe snickers appreciatively. The levity buoys him, and Ben tilts his head, letting himself take in the images of the adoptive family he'd never had the chance to meet. He doesn't need to read the bronzed plate at their feet; he knows the faces of Bail and Breha Organa like he knows his numbers, learned their names and histories alongside his childhood lessons. He feels small, standing beneath their statues. He can't remember a time when his family’s legacy didn't make him feel small. "But yes," he says, more seriously, "You're right."

Poe says nothing, and after a moment, Ben, expecting more, gives into the temptation to look. He finds Poe staring at him, a quizzical expression writ over his face. Ben frowns. "What?"

"Nothing," Poe says, then backtracks. "Well, that's not true. I'm actually trying to imagine you as an honest-to-goodness prince." He pauses significantly, then asks, "Do you think you still would've gone all... doom and gloom and emotionally constipated?" To helpfully illustrate his point, Poe gestures at all of him.

Ben briefly reflects on the childish urge to cuff him upside the head, then, reluctantly, discards it.

"One wonders," he replies, rolling his eyes. Turning, he looks back at the faces of his mother's parents. The carvings are delicate, etched gracefully into pale stone that seems nearly luminescent in the light, and almost as lifelike as the holos ever depicted them. Their expressions are proud and most of all kind; not for the first time, Ben regrets the lack of resemblance – not in feature, but certainly demeanor.

"Sometimes I think I'm glad," Poe says, folding his arms before him as he bends to read the engraving. "My parents never wanted to talk about their involvement in the Rebellion much, and I knew very little about my mother's reputation until I was already an adult, you know? Knowing would've been more intimidating. I don't know that I'd have done the same things with my life."

Ben closes his eyes, feeling years of regret flutter and then settle again over his shoulders, a familiar weight. It doesn't change, but sometimes it's easier to carry than others. Right now it's hard to tell which it is, to separate it from the emotion that echoes through this place, saturating the city to its foundations. Still, he nudges Poe's elbow with his, summons up a small smile. "You would have."

Poe shrugs easily, laughs a little. "Yeah, I probably would've."

They round the statues and press further into the galleries, people and history rushing around them in a constant tide.

 

-

 

Evening falls eventually. The days are long here, but the sky slowly eases in a deep periwinkle, one of the planet's moons edging into view as the daylight gradually fades. They're sure to eat, and when they exit the establishment, Poe gives him an expectant look.

"Yeah," Ben says, not without reluctance. "I know."

They wend through the streets, the going slow amidst everyone heading the same direction, towards the grand, glowing building at the center of town that functions as the seat of government. The plaza opens up before them, and their speed slows to a crawl.

It's been crowded all day, but nothing like this. There's barely room to move amidst the shuffle. There are thousands, both humanoid and dozens of other alien races, come to pay their respects. Their faces are lit gold by the glowing orbs that float overhead, held aloft by delicate silver strings, and by the candles they hold.

Not far off, a vendor sells her way through the throng, hawking candles to light to passerby. Ben makes to continue past but Poe catches him, signalling to wait. He does, if reluctantly. Poe returns with a candle for each of them, pressing one lit into Ben’s hands.

Noticing Ben’s expression, he only smiles. “It matters,” he says.

An ache lodges itself firmly between Ben’s ribs, burrowing deep. “Okay,” he says; swallows hard. “Come on.”

There’s a dias on the far side of the square where an orchestra plays. The tune itself is unfamiliar, but the tone of the instruments themselves are wholly recognizable -- there’s no way to mistake the low rumble of the traditional Alderaanian lutekey, or the famous Oroboro region’s violumna.

It surprises Ben, how much he remembers.

The music does its work, sparking a solemn mood in the crowd that surrounds them. Ben shoulders through, finding gaps in the press on sheer instinct, all while guarding the small flame in his hand with the care of a cupped palm. Poe keeps close behind and Ben never moves so quickly that he might lose him. He edges them past a white haired woman with shining eyes, standing alone and silently mouthing the words of a song set to the beat of the orchestra’s music. Ben catches a wave of loss so profound from her that it makes him momentarily dizzy, sees in his mind a glimpse of another woman and a child in the shade of a blue-leafed tree. Beyond her, a young couple, each wearing a bright band of Hosnian yellow around the wrists of their joined hands. The bloody red blast of Starkiller’s blast had been brighter.

Ben pauses to let another opening widen and something, the quietest of tremors in his consciousness, prompts him to lift his head. He locks gazes with a young girl, held tight in the arms of her grandfather. There’s no fear, just curiosity. She peers at him with wide eyes, clearly studying the scar that bisects his face with interest – it strikes him, suddenly, that she’s the only one. The galaxy has seen enough wars that battle scars are common, and not a subject of polite conversation. That doesn’t stop them from drawing stares and questions.

Here though, he’s just another anonymous face in the crowd, that history irrelevant in the face of their communal purpose. There’s no room for his old denials. His old guilts and reprisals feel cheap and hollow in this place. Ben takes a breath, and for the moment, tries to let them fade into the background. It’s a strange feeling, but endurable. He manages a small wave at the child and she ducks her head shyly, disappearing behind the shoulder she’d peeked over, and then they’re both lost to the shift of the crowd.

“I think it’s a little thinner over there,” Poe says, interrupting Ben’s thoughts. Ben follows his gaze, seeing the section in question, fewer people pressed up against a cordoned-off pathway than elsewhere, perhaps due to its distance from the musical dias.

“That will work,” he says.

It takes several solid minutes more to work their way to the edge, battling against the tide of people with similar ideas. They manage, coming up against the barrier just as the music changes, and not much further away, the doors of one of the state buildings open wide.

The procession is headed by two women, one tall and proud, her once bright blonde hair streaked with gray, and the other achingly familiar in step beside her.

His mother had always been small in stature, but that never mattered, least of all today. Leia Organa walks with her head held high, the candlelight all about her molding her in warmth. There’s no tell that she is anything other than the collected, regal woman that she seems to be, carrying the mantle of Princess alone. She’s largely abandoned the title but Alderaan is always with her. Life after death; his mother was a survivor.

Guilt constricts Ben’s throat again.

The argument had been foolish. She’d asked and he’d dismissed the request out of hand, drawing on all of the good reasons there were to back his choice in order to obscure the true one.

Snoke may be dead and gone but the First Order’s contingencies were many and its loyalists stubborn even routed, their commitments born out of the old Empire’s vindictive tenacity. But Leia had never chosen to hide, even at her most browbeaten and undermined. So she continued to fight, and the Resistance with her, with a vigilance of the once-burned. Ben often wondered why he’d had to inherit her temper, and not that long sighted courage instead.

“It’s a terrible idea,” he’d snapped. “I’m not going to go with you to paint a target on your back.”

The look of disappointment Leia had given him did nothing to hide the deep wells of sadness that surged around her, spilling determinedly over into Ben’s consciousness. “Safety isn’t everything, Ben,” she’d told him. “We’ve both spent too much of our lives denying where we come from.”

The words had made him brittle with anger. “The answer is no,” Ben had hissed, before turning his back and striding away. He can still feel it now, the echoes of loneliness and sorrow that he’d left in his wake, radiating from the procession rapidly approaching.

The air grows heavy in his chest. He steps forward.

Ben hardly registers the exclamation of annoyance of the Togruta he jostles, nor the spill of hot wax over his fingers, too intent on his purpose. There are no words for what he wishes he could say, even if he were close enough, if it were private enough, to say them so he reaches out in the one way he’s always known how and trusts it will suffice.

It does.

Leia pauses mid-step and turns her head, lips parting in surprise. Her gaze finds its mark and recognition renders her expression brilliant, followed closely by a rush of gratitude and affection Ben hardly deserves. He steadies himself regardless and nods, hoping against hope it will convey even a fraction of what he hopes it will. In return, his mother smiles, a soft thing, and what look like tears make her eyes shine, mirrorbright.

The blonde woman – Ben knew her name once, he thinks, but can’t place it now – touches Leia’s arm when she’s paused too long, and just like that, the moment is over. The two women exchange something indecipherable and slowly, the cavalcade before them edges forward. Still, Leia looks back, just long enough to find him again. Her mouth curves around something unmistakeable: _Thank you._

A swell of music later and she’s lost from sight, subsumed by the parade of diplomats and other public figures that follow. Ben shuts his eyes against the hot burn that threatens, treasonous. It’s like everything hits him all at once, Alderaan itself and all it means, all it’s ever meant, resurrecting and binding him inexorably in its orbit.

A hand slides into his, grounding him again, tying Ben back so he doesn’t spiral off in the tide of sudden grief wrenching all around and through him.

“You okay?” Poe asks, squeezing his hand. Ben catches his breath and holds it for a count of three; the sensation of drowning reluctantly recedes.

“I’m here,” Ben says and squeezes back.

The truth of it unlocks something in him that flies away on light wings. Ben doesn’t dare name it, but it leaves way for a small, still sense of peace, however fleeting. Candlelight scatters the sea of faces around them and the sky above, casting everything into something warm and golden. The stars of New Alderaan stand vigil beyond that, remembering, keeping the dark at bay.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, this was actually the first Star Wars fic I started, and it was something of an emotional journey getting it finished. #Alderaan feels life, six months in the making.
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated! Feel free to bug me on [tumblr](http://chelliaphra.tumblr.com).


End file.
